by Syrie James
Cassandra was especially welcome at Godmersham, and was invited to help with the children during Elizabeth’s many confinements. But although Elizabeth was very sweet to all of us, my mother and I were always keenly aware of our status there as the poor, widowed and spinster relations, and of the burden that we had become.
Our itinerant, dependent life mercifully came to an end some two years later, when my brother Frank made an unexpected proposition. Frank had recently fallen in love with a Ramsgate girl, Mary Gibson, whom he’d met while commanding the Sea Fencibles on the North Foreland. At two-and-thirty, Frank was eager to be married, and with prize money in hand and a good income, he could at last afford to do so. It was his suggestion that we should live with him and his new bride at Southampton.
Although Cassandra and I protested that we did not wish to intrude on the new couple’s happiness, Frank insisted it was the ideal arrangement; he would be away for many months at a time at sea, and we could keep his Mary company. The sharing of living expenses would greatly ease both his burden and ours. When I requested that our dear friend Martha Lloyd should also join us, as she had been rendered homeless since the death of her mother, Frank was most agreeable. Such a merry, receptive, sympathetic presence as Martha would be most welcome in any household. A pleasant-looking woman ten years my senior, Martha had been my most intimate friend since girlhood; she was also family, as her sister Mary was married to my brother James.
We were all delighted at the thought of a home of our own, and we left Bath with happy feelings of escape. I was not so keen, at first, on removing to Southampton; Cassandra and I had been sent away to school there when I was just seven years of age, and there we had both nearly died of an infectious fever.
I soon discovered, however, that Southampton, with its castellated folly in the square, and its old houses newly equipped with fashionable bow-windows, was a very picturesque and pleasant town indeed. The location, situated as it was at the mouth of the River Itchen, on the confluence of two large waters, and surrounded by mediaeval walls and open walks beside the sea, was ideal for Frank’s purposes, as he might often put into port at Portsmouth; and there was the added benefit of its being in Hampshire, only twenty-three miles from Steventon.
Arrangements were soon made. After temporary lodgings, we moved in March of 1807 into a rented house on a corner of Castle Square, and engaged the services of two maids and a cook. The house was old and not in the best repair, but it had a pleasant garden, and was bounded on one side by the old city wall; the top of the wall, reached by steps, was wide enough to walk upon, and offered a delightful view of the river and its wooded banks.
No sooner had we moved in, than Frank received his next appointment, to command HMS St. Albans. I believe it was a great comfort to him that while he was away, fitting out the ship for a long voyage, we were there to attend the birth of his daughter; for Mary had quite a difficult time of it.
As grateful as I was to be settled for a time, and as much as I enjoyed the society of my family, I soon found that the company of so many people, confined to one city household, left little room to breathe—particularly when we had visitors, as we did one memorable day in late June, when my brother Henry came to town.
Imagine the scene, if you will: eight of us gathered in the parlour, perched on the sofa and an assortment of chairs. Henry, looking smart in his light brown full-dress coat, sat reading the newspaper. My mother, Cassandra, Martha and Frank (home for his daughter’s christening, and his last month of home life before setting sail) were occupied by knotting fringe onto some curtains. Mary held her baby, Mary Jane, then two months old. I sat at my little mahogany writing desk, a gift from my father on my nineteenth birthday and my most prized possession, composing a letter.
“You are looking well, Frank,” said Henry, “for a weather-beaten old sea Captain.”
“Weather-beaten, indeed,” said Cassandra with a wry smile. “Our Frank is as young and handsome as ever.”
“If any one is weather-beaten, it is I,” exclaimed my mother. “I declare, I have never seen a June so hot. It makes one feel very ill. I cannot sleep, I have a heat in my throat and my chest, and my appetite is never what it used to be.”
Since my mother had consumed nearly half a boiled chicken and a large slice of apple pie at dinner, I found her pronouncement rather startling. “I am sorry you are not well, mamma,” said I, looking up from my letter and stifling a yawn, for I had not slept well, either; the little infant’s cries had kept me up half the night. “Perhaps you would feel better if you were to lie down.”
“It is too hot to lie down,” replied my mother crossly, as she continued with her knotting, “and I could not get a moment’s rest, knowing there is all this work to be done.”
My mother was of middling height, spare and thin, with handsome grey eyes, dark hair that still retained its colour, and an aristocratic nose (of which she was quite proud, and which she had had the pleasure of transmitting to a great many of her children). Although a quick-witted woman of sparkle and spirit, she suffered from a variety of maladies which could not always be diagnosed by a physician. 5
“Frank, tell us: how does Her Majesty’s Ship, the St. Albans?” enquired Henry, by way of changing the subject.
“She is fit as a fiddle, and ready to set sail for the Cape next week, and from there, on to China.”
“China! Are we at war with China?” enquired Mary in some alarm.
“No, my dear. Our duty is to convoy and protect a shipping fleet.”6
“Thank goodness. I hope you will not be near any fighting. Do take more care with your knots, dear. You want knots to be of equal size, and fringe of equal length.”
“There is nothing wrong with my knots, Mary,” rejoined Frank calmly. “I have heard it said, in certain circles, that my knotting ability is unparalleled, and among the best in the Royal Navy.”
“No one would say such a thing, unless it were your own mother,” replied Mary.
“And so I would,” said my mother proudly. “My Frank has always been clever with his hands, and his time at sea has certainly prepared him well for this occupation.”
“It would knot be a lie,” said I, “to say that Frank knots fringe on curtains better than any man I ever saw.”
The others laughed. “A fine honour, is it knot?” said Martha, giggling.
“Indeed,” added my mother, “for I have knot, in all my days, seen any other man with such a talent.”
More merry laughter ensued, and the conversation continued on in this vein for some time longer, as I struggled to put words on paper.
“What are you so busy writing, Jane?” asked Henry of a sudden. “Is it a new novel, I hope?”
“No. Only a letter to Fanny.”
“You are for ever writing letters,” said Mary as she gently rocked her sleeping infant in her arms. “I think you write more letters than any body I ever met.”
“Letter-writing is a worthy occupation,” I replied, as I dipped my pen in the inkpot. “I think there is nothing quite so satisfying as the receipt of an excellent letter, full of interesting news.”
Cassandra glanced up from her fringe-knotting with an avid nod. “When Jane and I are parted, I know not what I should do, without her regular communications.”
“I enjoy writing a letter now and then myself,” said my mother, “but I prefer, on the whole, to put my efforts into poetry, when I find the time.”
“We have all enjoyed your verses since childhood, mamma,” I replied sincerely.
“You are a talent, mother,” said Henry. “The poem you wrote when you recovered from your illness at Bath, under Bowen’s care—that was particularly good.”
“Oh! It was!” cried Martha. At which point—on catching Cassandra’s eye—she put down her needlework, and the two both proceeded to recite in merry unison:
“Says Death: I’ve been trying these three week or more
To seize an old Madam here at Number Four,
Yet I still try in vain, tho she’s turned of three score;
To what is my ill-success owing?
I’ll tell you, old Fellow, if you cannot guess,
To what you’re indebted for your ill success—
To the prayers of my husband, whose love I possess,
To the care of my daughters, whom Heaven will bless,
To the skill and attention of Bowen.”
Laughter followed, along with a succession of very pretty and well-deserved compliments on behalf of my mother’s wit, which thrilled her no end.
“Your brother James is also an excellent poet,”7 said my mother modestly.
“Jane’s poetry does credit to the Austen name, as well,” said Henry, “but she, I think, has an even greater talent for prose. It irritates me no end that Crosby has never published her book Susan, after all their promises.”
“I cannot understand why a publisher would pay good money for a manuscript, and then not print it,” said my mother.
“Clearly, it was not good enough,” said I. 8
“I cannot agree,” said Martha. “Susan is great fun! Although First Impressions9 is my favourite. I adore Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth—and I think it most unfair that you only allowed me to read it three times, and that a great many years ago.”
“I could not risk a fourth reading,” said I with a smile. “With one more perusal, I fear you would have stolen away First Impressions and published it from memory.”
Martha laughed. “As if I would do such a thing.”
“That book should be published,” said Henry.
“Papa tried,” I reminded him. “It was refused.”
“Refused unread,” insisted Henry. “That is no reflection on the book’s merit; only that one publisher could not be bothered to read something sent in by an unknown clergyman. I wish you would allow me to submit it for you now. We might have better luck than we did with Susan.”
“I doubt it. Ten years have passed since I wrote First Impressions. The world has changed, so have its tastes in literature, and so have I. It would require a great deal of alteration, I am certain, before I would deem it ready.”
“What about that other book you wrote about the two sisters, Elinor and Marianne?” enquired Henry. “What was it called?”
“Sense and Sensibility. That was a revised version of an epistolary novel. I am not at all satisfied with the attempt.”
“I remember it as a nice little story,” said Cassandra.
“A nice little story,” I agreed, “which is enjoying a nice, quiet little life at the bottom of my writing-box, where I am convinced that it belongs.”
“How you have managed to keep track of that writing-box all these years, Jane, is beyond me,” said my mother. “I believe that trunk has travelled with us every single place we have gone, ever since you were a child. Do you recall the time we stopped at Dartford, on our return from Godmersham, and it was accidentally packed into a chaise that drove off with it? Where was it headed again?”
“To Gravesend, on their way to the West Indies,” I replied, with a shudder. That box, which held all my manuscripts, seemed at the time to contain all my worldly wealth; no part of my property was ever so dear to me.
“Thank the good Lord they were able to stop the chaise before it had got more than a few miles off,” said my mother, “or we should never have set eyes on those manuscripts again in this lifetime.”
“Indeed,” said I, as I returned my attention once again to my letter; but I had written no more than two words, when Mary Jane awoke and began to cry.
“There, there,” exclaimed her mother, as she stood and paced about the room, bouncing the infant against her chest. “Don’t fret, now. Don’t fret.”
“I think she is tired,” said my mother.
“She just awoke from her nap,” replied Mary, greatly vexed.
“Perhaps she is wet,” said Martha.
“She is dry as a bone. Oh dear, dear; whatever is the matter?”
“She might stop crying if you did not jostle her about so,” admonished Frank.
“Are you the expert on caring for babies now?” replied Mary with some annoyance. “I have been with her every moment since her birth, while you have been here but three weeks.”
“A naval officer need never apologize for his time at sea,” answered Frank. “May I remind you that it is that very living which buys your gowns and bonnets, and feeds our family. Furthermore, and a hundred years at home could not convince me otherwise, a child can derive no comfort from being shaken about like a butter churn.”
“She might be hungry,” remarked Cassandra.
“You might give her some molasses,” suggested Martha.
“She is too young. Molasses will only cloy her stomach,” said my mother. “Oh! Dear! All this heat and noise has given me a headache.”
The ladies immediately proceeded to debate all known cures for a headache, as well as every possible cause of the infant’s misery. The baby let out an ear-piercing shriek; I started, and the nib of my pen broke, splashing ink across the page. Mary, beside herself, burst into tears.
“I know what I need,” said my mother. “There is a nice ale in the larder. Jane, you are not doing any thing. Be a dear and fetch me some.”
I put my pen down and wiped ink from my fingers. “Yes, mamma. Right away.”
“Mamma,” said I that evening, as I sat upon my mother’s bed and brushed her hair, “how long do you think we shall live here, with Frank and Mary?”
“A very long time, I hope,” replied my mother. “For I have done with moving about. There is great comfort in waking up every morning in the same bed, in the same room.”
“I could not agree more. But does it seem right to you, for us to trespass on Frank’s generosity?”
“What do you mean, trespass? We contribute our share to household expenses. We were here for that child’s birth, and we shall be here for Mary during Frank’s long absences. It is quite an equitable arrangement for all concerned.”
“I understand. But Frank is paying the larger share. And he and Mary are sure to have more children. One day they will have done with putting up with us.”
“I pray that will not be so. For then, what is to become of us? We cannot afford separate accommodation. Are we to go back to long visits to friends, and shifting between your brothers? I could not bear it.”
“Neither could I.” I sighed. “Oh! Mamma! I do not wish to sound ungrateful; Frank and Mary have been so welcoming, and we do have our amusing moments. But there is so little quiet here, and no privacy. Do you never dream of a home of our own?”
“Every night and every day,” said my mother, in a wistful tone. “But I try not to think of such things. It is not profitable. Mary is not a bad sort, and that baby is as pretty as a picture. We are fortunate to have a roof above our heads, and that is that.”
“If only there was some way I could earn my own money. It is so unfair. Men may chuse a profession, and with hard work, acquire wealth and respect, while we are forced to sit home, completely dependent. It is a great indignity.”
“It is the way of the world, Jane. Better to accept it and live within it, for nothing can be done to change it.” My mother met my gaze in the looking-glass above her dressing-table. “Of course, things might be different for us, if only—”
“If only what?” said I quietly, knowing only too well what she was about to say.
“If only you or Cassandra were to marry.”
I lay down my mother’s hairbrush and stood. This was a well-worn topic, and it never ceased to vex me. “Please, mamma.”
“Your poor sister, of course, had it very hard. But she was still young and beautiful when Tom died.”
Cassandra was indeed the beauty of the family; with her pale complexion, lovely dark eyes, high-arched nose, and sweet smile, she continued to be admired by many of the gentlemen of our acquaintance, yet she turned her head away. “She has professed that she could only love but once,”
said I.
“What a lot of nonsense that is. With the world full of so many fine men! Well, if she chuses to spend her life mourning her one true love, I suppose no one will think the worse of her, for at least she had a prospect, and her happiness was snatched away by forces not within her control. But you, Jane, you remain single, and you have nothing like her excuse.”
I knew she referred to an offer of marriage which had been made to me some years previously by a young man of wealth and property, an offer which I had declined. 10 “Surely you would not have liked me to marry for convenience, mamma, when there was no love in the connection?”
“A mother always hopes her daughters will marry men they love, or come to love the men they marry. As you may recall, I was disinclined to marry; but I took your father, because I needed a home for my widowed mother. And all came out well, did it not?”
“Yes, mamma. But you chose well in my father. He was the very best of men. If I ever meet such a man, and if I love him, I shall happily accept him.”
“You girls to-day, you are too romantic in your expectations; it is not always possible to find both love and a decent husband, Jane. Let us speak in truth, my dear: you are not getting any younger.”
She spoke in such a serious tone, and seemed so full of genuine concern, I could not take offence at the remark. “Indeed, I am one-and-thirty,” I agreed, “well beyond all hope.”
“All is not yet lost,” said my mother consolingly, not sensing the irony in my voice. “You still have your beauty, and lovely hazel eyes, and a very fine complexion.”
“And all my teeth. And do not you think my hair, which curls so naturally, is quite a lovely shade of brown? I have heard it, more than once, called auburn. Why, at market I might fetch as high a price as one of Edward’s best horses.”